


Soul Food

by rei_c



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Play, Anal Sex, Bad Jokes, Blood, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Bottom Sam, Cannibalism, Caretaking, Cheating, Consensual Underage Sex, Cooking, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Devotion, Domestic Dean Winchester, Domestic Sam Winchester, Extremely Underage, Food Issues, Food Porn, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food is People, I Don't Even Know, I'm Bad At Tagging, Incest, Knives, Language, M/M, Murder, Not My Fault, Oral Sex, Possessive Dean Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester is a Little Shit, So Married, Sorry Not Sorry, Stalking, Top Dean, Top Sam, Torture, Trust, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 15:01:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5670178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/rei_c
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam reads the Hannibal Lecter books and gets -- a little inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul Food

**Author's Note:**

> I know it's been a few days since we've posted anything in this 'verse but hopefully this will make up for it!

A year-and-a-bit ago, back when they started killing, Sam practically inhaled every book and magazine and newspaper article he thought might be useful. Most of them disappeared a day or two later, not a good idea to keep stuff about serial killing around the house when Dad was dropping in and out, but Sam lugged _Gray's_ around with him everywhere, loved that book the same way Dean loves his favourite gun. 

Sam had eventually complained that he was out of reading material, wanted more. They were in bed, it was nearing sunrise, and Dean was tired, so he'd made an offhand mention of the Hannibal Lecter books, completely forgot about it until he came home three days later to see Sam sitting on the porch steps reading _Silence of the Lambs_ in his pyjamas and Dad's ratty old bathrobe. Sam read the trilogy like they were textbooks and ever since, every once in awhile, he gets a far-off, distant look that Dean's never asked about because he thinks he knows the answer and he doesn't want to get his hopes up in case he's wrong. 

He doesn't ask, doesn't mention it, doesn't even bring up the books to ask how Sam liked them, and then one day, out of nowhere, Sam pauses in the middle of reading a Latin codex about demonic ranks and exorcisms out loud, and says, _I wanna try it._

Dean's at the kitchen counter up to his elbows in bread dough listening to Sam read, but he glances over his shoulder, asks, _Try what_? He's ridiculously curious because Sam sounds hesitant, like he doesn't get that Dean is fifteen and kneading fucking bread dough, of course he'll do anything for Sam.

_People_ , Sam says. _Eating them. If it's good, we leave less evidence. Less to hide. Quicker._

Dean thinks about this for a moment, says, _You wouldn't have a problem with it_? 

He's talking about Sam's reluctance to eat anything Dean hasn't given to him with his own two hands, not the cannibalism, and Sam stiffens for a moment before he follows Dean's train of thought, relaxes and shrugs one shoulder. _One way to find out_ , he says. 

_We could try_ , Dean says. _Can't hurt. And hey, meat's expensive these days, 'specially the kind you like, all this organic, grass-fed, preservative-free shit._

Sam bites his lower lip, says, softly, _I wanna try. And -- and I wanna do it. Cook, I mean. For you._

Dean smiles, holds out his arms, hands covered in dough and flour and the slight greasiness of butter, and holds Sam tight when Sam comes to him, clings to him, all too willing despite the mess. _You say the word, Sammy_ , he says. _But you don't gotta._

_I know_ , Sam says.

\--

Dean lifts a couple cookbooks for Sam, the fancy kind with recipe names in Italian and French, sometimes the directions, too. Sam pages through them, brow furrowed as he concentrates, and three weeks before Christmas, he sits next to Dean on the couch, leans on Dean, curling into Dean's heat and arms with a content sigh. 

_Nothin' on tv_ , Dean says. _That time of year, I guess_.

Dad's in the kitchen, doesn't even notice that Dean's talking, too focused on the research and muttering under his breath like that might help decipher Bobby's notes. 

Sam glances at Dad, then turns back to Dean, says, _I wanna. I'm ready_. 

Dean doesn't even need to ask. He can read the trails of Sam's mind as easily as Sam can read Dean's. He gets it, right away, what Sam's asking, what he's telling Dean, and he shifts as he thinks of it, as his pulse accelerates and his mouth dries and his dick hardens, echoing the need suddenly throbbing through his veins. It's been three months since their last kill -- three months and four states -- and Dean could go longer, probably should to be safe, but he wants this, wants it bad enough to do it even if Dad sticks around. 

_When_? Dean asks. He's got ideas running through his head -- distracted shoppers, pushy johns, that asshole down the block that nearly t-boned the Impala once -- and he hatches plans quick, discards them just as fast, trying to come up with something perfect. They'll need a place to work, too, so Dean should probably scout out the industrial district, maybe check down by the river, or some of the barns sticking up over ice- and dirt-covered fields might be abandoned, he should look into those, too, just in case.

_Dad's leaving in the morning_ , Sam says, _and he won't be back until Christmas Eve. We've got time._

Sometimes when Sam does this, knows things he shouldn't, Dean lets it slide, just accepts it because Sam's never been wrong. Tonight, though, the threat of their father finding out has Dean asking, _How d'y'know_?

Sam grins, twines his feet in with Dean's, presses a quick, silent kiss to Dean's shoulder, unspoken reassurance that he's not angry at the question. _He's trying to track a werewolf down_ , Sam says. _Full moon is two days before Christmas and you know Dad, he'll wanna make sure he's got the right monster. He's been looking at maps of the Alleghenys, that's a 23-hour drive on the interstate and Dad won't wanna chance Indiana highway patrol so he'll be taking back roads through at least Indiana. That gets him home Christmas Eve lunchtime at the earliest. Leaving tomorrow's just a guess but Dad's been home for nine days, which I think is a new record, and he's drinking scotch._ Dean shakes his head, doesn't follow, and Sam elbows him, says, _He always drinks one glass of scotch the night before he gets on the road, idiot. Otherwise it's bourbon. Cheap bourbon._

Dean shakes his head again, smiling this time, as he runs a couple fingertips down Sam's cheek, scritches lightly under Sam's chin. _Too smart, Sammy_ , he says. _Way too fucking smart._

_In some things_ , Sam says, because Dean gets upset when Sam tries to downplay his intelligence, his observational skills, the way his blank face and cold, cunning eyes hide a keen mind that sees and remembers everything. _So. Y'wanna_?

_Fuck, yeah_ , Dean says. _'Course I do, bitch. I'll think it over tonight, scout out some places tomorrow, we can start hunting this weekend_?

Sam nods, adds, _Jerk_ , and doesn't say another word the rest of the night. 

Dean's used to it, can read Sam's thoughts without needing to hear them, but Dad keeps one eye on Sam until bedtime like he's not quite sure what Sam is when it's so obvious: he's Dean's. 

\--

Dad's up and leaving the next morning a couple hours before sunrise. Dean sees his father out, sleep schedule fucked years ago so he's more awake than not, and says, "Happy hunting, Dad. Call us if you need anything." 

"'Course I will," John says. His eyes flick over Dean's shoulder, into the dark house, then back to Dean, and he says, "Keep an eye on your brother, 'kay?"

"Always," Dean replies. 

Dad purses his lips like he was expecting that answer and doesn't like it one bit. Dean waits, would give even odds on Dad saying something about him and Sam or on Dad letting it go like he always does. It doesn't usually take this long for Dad to let it slide but soon he just shakes his head and lets out a deep breath. "I left some money in the kitchen. Should be enough for food and some new clothes. Don't worry about Christmas, I'll be home by then and I'll bring a tree with me." 

Enough for food and new clothes -- probably not, but they'll be fine. They always are, between Dean pulling tricks and Sam picking pockets. "Be safe," Dean says, and he stands in the doorway, watches as Dad gets into the Impala and leaves, bright headlights piercing into the black. 

When Dean can't hear the Impala anymore, he shuts and locks the door, goes back to the bedroom, to Sam. Dean takes off his pyjamas, gets back under the covers with Sam, tugs Sam close and plants a kiss on the top of his head. 

Sam hums, snuggles into Dean, still mostly asleep, and asks, _Gone_?

_Yeah_ , Dean says. _Go back to sleep. It's cold enough to freeze your balls out there; I ain't goin' nowhere 'til the sun's up._

_Good_ , Sam says, and he shifts, drapes himself half on top of Dean, in the perfect spot to tuck his face into Dean's neck, one thigh falling into the space between Dean's legs, right there and ready for Dean to rut against. _Y'should, too, y'know. Get s'me sleep. Huntin'._

Dean chuckles, one hand tangled in Sam's mop of hair, the other planted firmly under the curve of Sam's ass, and pulls Sam as close as humanly possible. He inhales the shampoo-and-smoke scent of Sam's hair and gives in to the urge to move, to seek out the friction of Sam's warm skin and bony hips. _I will,_ he says, and Sam's asleep when Dean comes over both of them.

\--

Dean spends the afternoon walking around town, trying to nail down a good place. There are a few options that are okay, but not the best, and he's deep in thought when he gets back to the house they're renting. The first thing he does is look for Sam -- always the first thing -- and just as Dean's taken one step off the welcome mat, heart racing when Sam's not immediately there, not in sight, Sam appears from around the corner. He's wearing sweatpants and one of Dean's t-shirts, laughably oversized on him. The shirt hangs down on one side, showing off the delicate lines of Sam's shoulder, the waifish curve of his collarbone, and Dean's mouth goes dry as his body heats up, burns off the outside's chill in an instant. 

_Yeah_? Sam asks, and Dean laughs, can't help it, because he knows that was two questions, Sam wanting to know if Dean found a place with the word and asking if Dean wants to mess around with the crooked grin his lips form after he licks them. 

_A couple spots_ , Dean says, shedding his boots, coat and hoodie, gloves, _but nothing perfect. It might take me a while to find a place._

Sam leans on the wall, folding his arms across his chest. Eleven and yet Sam's already got his hip cocked out in invitation, the slight bend of his neck showing off his collarbones, one hand reaching up lazily to scratch at his belly and giving Dean a teasing glimpse of skin. 

Dean crosses the space between them quickly, tangles one hand in Sam's hair and yanks backwards, lifting Sam's face. Dean practically attacks his brother with his lips, with teeth and tongue, because fuck if the sight of Sam wearing his clothes isn't one of the hottest things Dean's ever seen. _Fucking tease_ , Dean mutters. _Such a little fucking cocktease._

_Only teasing if you ain't gonna follow through_ , Sam says. _And I always follow through._

He drops to his knees right there, taking off the shirt along the way. Sam undoes Dean's jeans, little flicks of his thumb over Dean's already hard dick as he pulls down the zipper, and as soon as Dean's jeans get pulled down his hips, Dean's cock springs up, wet at the head. Sam looks up, licks his lips, and then says, _Use me._

_How's a man supposed to resist an invitation like that_ , Dean replies, mind short-circuiting because yeah, Sam's sucked his cock before, even deep-throats him sometimes and always swallows, but this is different. Dean's never actually fucked his brother's mouth before, prefers to let Sam set the pace. He almost wants to stop this before it gets started but he's hard and Sam's got that mulish look in his eyes, the one that says he's not backing down from this, that he knows exactly what he's asking for and wants it. 

_Fuck my mouth, Dean_ , Sam says. _As hard and fast as you wanna until you come down my throat. Want you to use me, Dean. I'm yours; prove it._

Shit. Dean lifts his hands, puts them on Sam's head, twines his fingers in Sam's hair, and says, _You wanna stop, just tell me._

Sam rolls his eyes and then he opens his mouth wide, swallows to let the line of his neck move and draw Dean's attention. He's got it -- oh, he's got it -- and Dean slowly feeds Sam his dick, watches as he pushes and pushes until he's in to the balls, the slightest bulge in Sam's throat. Dean can't wait to fuck Sam, sometimes has to hold on to that rule with both hands and feet and all the stubbornness he can maintain, but Sam's mouth, Sam's throat, is a more than acceptable substitute. 

_Perfect_ , Dean murmurs, as he moves his hips, slow at first, gathering speed as he starts to fuck Sam's mouth. He doesn't know how Sam is breathing, doesn't know how he hasn't fought back, doesn't know how he can just kneel there with Dean's hands in his hair, yanking Sam as deep on his cock as possible at the same time he thrusts forward. He watches Sam, watches his dick slide in and out of Sam's mouth, watches as drool gathers at the corners of Sam's mouth and then starts to drip down his chin in a steady trail, watches as tears start falling from Sam's eyes. 

He almost stops when he sees Sam struggling to breathe -- snot's running out of his nose, some of it already hitting his top lip, Dean's cock -- but Sam's eyes are focused on Dean, nothing in them to suggest he's scared or unhappy or ready to stop. Sam would tap out if he needed to, Dean trusts that, so he just keeps his eyes on Sam and fucks until he comes, right down Sam's throat. 

Dean stumbles back once he's done, cock sliding out of Sam's mouth with a wet noise that's kind of gross, actually, and he has to lean against the wall to catch his breath. _Okay_? he asks. 

Sam uses his discarded shirt to blow his nose, to wipe up the drool and the tears, and when he lowers the shirt to his knees, he's grinning. _We're gonna do that again_ , he says, and he sounds fucking wrecked. _Just not right away. Okay_? 

_Fine_ , Dean says, and he helps Sam stand up, tugs Sam into his arms and holds his little brother. He rubs his nose on Sam's forehead, murmurs, _Don't know what I did to deserve you_.

_Nothin',_ Sam says, _but you got me anyway. Forever. Now, when are you going back out to look for a place_?

Dean reaches up, smacks the back of Sam's head, then halfway drags Sam to the kitchen -- the kid's too skinny. 

\--

Dean finds the ideal spot two days of searching later. 

He's getting anxious, on edge, twitchy because he knows what's coming, he wants to be there already, hunting, stalking, killing. He wants blood on his hands and in his mouth and he wants to blood all over his brother and he's hungry, so very hungry. Sam does his best to distract Dean, channelling all the building energy into sex that leaves them both marked up and exhausted, giving Dean his body in every way Dean will accept, letting Dean do whatever he wants. Dean hates that he's taking, loathes himself for not being strong enough to resist this need to go out and put his hands around someone's throat and squeeze until their eyes pop out and their tongue turns black -- but Sam doesn't care. Sam spreads his legs for Dean's fingers, opens his mouth for Dean's cock, holds Dean and murmurs such sweet things in Dean's ear as they fall asleep curled together and covered in each other's sweat. 

They're in a small bungalow on the edge of town -- not the best place they've ever lived but not the worst, either. The electricity and gas work, the water runs hot, the kitchen's decent, so Dean doesn't complain about the bad insulation or the way the whole place creaks underfoot or the fact that they're too far out of the town for cable or city water. He's on his way back there, a couple new fleece blankets in his hands because fuck but it's starting to get cold at night, wind coming in through badly fitted windows and doors, when he takes a different turn through the fields, stumbles across an old, rotting farmhouse in the middle of a clump of trees. 

The place looks like it might have been nice back in its day: wide, wrap-around porch, frayed tyre swing rope and rusting jungle gym, tattered remnants of what looks like a washing line. Even better, there's a barn in the back, probably more of a shed but it's painted red and looks big enough for a tractor, so. Dean glances around, can't see the road from here, can't see _anything_ from here, and he creeps through the overgrown weeds and wild rosebushes to the barn. 

There's nothing inside; whoever lived here last cleaned it out when they left but there's room enough to work and the wooden walls feel sturdy. With the trees around the property, they won't have to worry as much about being loud, and if they need to, they can spend the night in the farmhouse, looked like it had a basement from the small windows just above the dirt line that Dean saw. Dean crouches down, touches the cement floor, and looks around the barn. A slow smile creeps across his face and he stands up, chuckling. 

\--

Sam's waiting for Dean, is sitting on the couch curled up with a book and buried under a pile of blankets. He looks up when Dean comes in and instantly grins. _Location, check_ , he says. Sam tosses the book to one side and makes his way out from under the blankets. He's still warm when he gets to Dean even though he's not wearing a stitch of clothing and the wind's howling outside. Dean shakes his head but Sam just rolls his eyes and asks, _Hunt tomorrow_? 

Dean's grin gets wider as he holds Sam tight, nuzzles his little brother. _Let's go shopping_ , Dean says. 

\--

They take the bus to the mall, Dean floundering in front of the driver at not having enough change, Sam hiding half behind him, pathetic puppy-dog eyes aimed full-force at the bus driver. They have the money to pay for the ride but Dean likes to stay in practice and he always gets a kick out of people being taken in by the way Sam acts. The bus driver eventually just sighs and lets them on, and Dean leads Sam to the very back, lets Sam slide in first so Dean can claim the space next to the aisle. 

_Still got it_ , Dean murmurs, one hand high up on Sam's thigh as he takes in the people around them. 

Sam lets his legs fall apart, says, fond, _Idiot_.

Dean squeezes Sam's thigh, lets his hand slide up just a little more to tease along the inseam of Sam's jeans. _You're the idiot_ , he mutters. 

_So what are we looking for_? Sam asks, two stops later, Dean's thumb rubbing back and forth over the line of Sam's dick. _You got a preference_?

_You're the one with the five-course meal planned out_ , Dean says. _We need someone with fat, or are we talking good muscles, or what_?

Sam leans, rests his cheek on Dean's shoulder. _Whatever you want, Dean. Don't matter to me_.

_Okay, then_ , Dean says. He closes his eyes, calls back the farmhouse and barn to his mind, starts to cycle through the possibilities. Dark hair would show up better against the cement but the last two have been brunettes so they should switch it up. A redhead might be nice if they can find one, but no, hair colour's not the essential quality here. Eye colour isn't either, nor is build, though Dean would prefer someone a little softer: they're easier to cut apart. _A woman_ , he finally says, mostly because they've had three men in a row and Dean's getting tired of it. _If we're gonna eat her, not too stressed; I don't want anything to affect the taste of the meat._

_Oh, because she's not gonna be ridiculously fucking stressed when we kidnap her, torture her, and kill her_ , Sam says, sarcasm coating his words. 

Dean pinches Sam's inner thigh through the thin jeans Sam's wearing. _We don't want her to start off stressed, then, dork._

Sam lets out a deep breath, turns his head enough to suck Dean's earlobe into his mouth, nibble at it for a moment. _Dean_ , he says. _It's two weeks before Christmas and we're going to a mall. Do you really think we're going to find anyone who isn't freaking out about the holidays_?

_I got a good feeling about this, Sammy_ , Dean says, as he slides his hand down Sam's jeans. _A real good feeling_.

_I got a good feeling about what you're doing right now_ , Sam says in return, and he spreads his legs just that little bit wider, slouches just a little lower in his seat, to give Dean room to work. 

\--

They've been at the mall sipping Orange Juliuses and eating cookies in the food court for two hours before someone catches Dean's eyes. He stands up, Sam following him immediately without even needing to be told, and they scurry through the crowds like mice, Dean leading the way as he trails his next victim, Sam right behind him, a calm and comforting presence. 

The one Dean's picked out is a woman: middle-aged, blonde hair going grey, wearing skinny jeans, tall boots, and a wool peacoat. She's moving with more purpose than anyone else but looks confident, happy, pleased with herself. Dean checks her out, eyes taking in the diamond-studded watch, the two- or three-carat engagement ring and plain gold wedding band, the diamond studs in her ears, her thin and delicate gold necklace, her immaculately-styled hair, the heels she's wearing, the purse she's carrying. 

He nods in her direction and Sam follows his gaze, narrows his eyes as he studies her. _We could pawn the jewellery, probably_ , Sam says. _Same with the shoes and the purse; should get a couple hundred for those at the right place. We break those diamonds down, we can keep some for that witch trap we've been looking at and sell the rest. Useful. Gold rather than silver, though -- we don't need spare bullet material_?

_Can get silver anywhere_ , Dean says, taking Sam's hand and tugging him through a particularly large knot in the crowd, kids and parents waiting around for a picture with Santa. _Can't get someone like her too many places_.

_Married, though_ , Sam says. Dean hears hesitation in his brother's voice, looks down at Sam and sees Sam lick his lips, eyes starting to fill with the same hunger Dean feels all the time. He's trying valiantly to be their common sense, though, and Dean loves him for it. _She'll be reported missing quickly and we're not moving for a couple weeks. Think we can get away with it_?

Dean scrambles onto the escalator, their target still in sight as she steps off at the bottom of the escalator and heads for one of the pricier stores. _If we're careful_ , Dean says. _Been awhile since we've had a challenge._

Sam puts his hand around the back of Dean's neck, squeezes a little until Dean looks at him. _We get caught, they split us up_ , he says. 

Dean has to bite back the instant snarl at the thought, the way his blood boils in his veins and his vision goes red with the urge to kill, to kill everything and everyone that would ever even _dare_ to take Sam from him, to take his little brother away, to keep his entire reason for existence apart from Dean forever. 

_Hey_ , Sam says, soft, now on the same step, pressing the entire length of his body into Dean's, one hand on Dean's cheek. _Nothing's happening. Deep breath. I just -- I want you to remember that_. Sam stops mid-sentence and the two step off the escalator, loiter around one of the indoor palm trees while they wait for their prey to come out of the store. 

_What were you gonna say_? Dean asks, keeps his brother's hand tight in his, willing his heart to calm, his pulse to slow. _You want me to remember what_? 

Sam looks up at Dean, his pupils blown so wide that Dean thinks he'd see the universe in them if he squinted or tilted his head the right way. _That this isn't a game, not really. It's fun to treat it like one sometimes, Dean, but I will knock you out and tie you up if I ever think you're taking this too lightly._ Sam looks down, adds, soft, _I'd rather hurt you like that than lose you forever._

Any anger that Dean might have felt at Sam's reminder -- he doesn't need a fucking reminder, Sam -- dissipates completely at Sam's words. Sometimes he forgets that Sam's eleven, that the idea of the two of them being split apart terrifies Sam as much as Dean, but where Dean goes hot with animalistic rage, Sam goes cold with cruel cunning and sharp words. Dean pulls Sam close, syncs his breathing to Sam's, and doesn't say a word or let go until their quarry is coming out of the shop with yet another bag in her hands. 

_I'll be careful_ , Dean promises. _If it looks too hard, we'll find someone else. Swear._ Sam looks up at him, puts his hands on Dean's cheeks and steps on his tiptoes to reach up, kiss Dean chastely on the lips. _Now come on, Sammy_ , Dean says, grinning at Sam, the need for violence that thrums constantly under his skin partially sublimating into lust for his brother. _She's on the move._

\--

They follow her in and out of stores, get close enough at one point to hear her name as she checks out, and when she's heading for the exit, Dean looks at his little brother. 

_Phone book_? Sam asks. 

_Phone book_ , Dean replies with a decisive nod. _We'll start there_.

\--

There's only one Lynn Mallory in the phone book, but there are two L. Mallorys as well, and Dean says, _We'll have to check all three and you know she's gonna be in the last place we look, no matter where we start_. He tilts his head back, lets out a frustrated groan. It took longer to find a place than Dean would have liked and now they have to stalk three separate houses to find where their prey has gone to ground. 

_Before we do that, I need to pick up some groceries_ , Sam says. _If we're gonna get her tonight, I mean. Otherwise it can wait._

Dean gives Sam a look, says, _Groceries_ mildly, like there's not a question buried in that one word. 

Sam huffs, says, _Just a few things, and I lifted some cash when we were at the mall so we don't have to steal it. It won't take long, Dean; I have a list_.

_You have a -- of course you have a list_ , Dean says. His blood is thrumming inside of him, fingers twitching for a blade and feet ready to go out and find Lynn Mallory, he wants to hear her screaming and watch as the hope drains from her eyes, but Sam wants groceries. _Fine_ , he says, grumpy and not bothering to hide it. _Let's go get your fucking groceries._

_Promise it'll be worth it_ , Sam says, before he kisses Dean. Sam uses teeth, leaves both of them with blood on their lips when he pulls back. 

That goes a long way towards giving Dean just a little more patience. 

\--

Sam drags Dean through the store, throwing more than 'a few' things into their cart. Dean's not sure how everything's going to be made, put together, and he raises his eyebrows at all the vegetables Sam's picking out for Dean to bag -- raises his eyebrows but doesn't say a word. Instead, when Sam's not watching, too intent on finding the perfect onion or the right kind of lentils -- _seriously, Sam_ , lentils? -- Dean tosses a few other things in the cart. Sam doesn't notice until they get to the check-out. The look on his face makes Dean laugh, the delay in their hunt well worth it just for that expression. 

They stop by the house, put the cold things in the fridge and leave everything else on the table, Sam tucks a small bag for loot in the back of his jeans, then head off to the first address. 

\--

The first L. Mallory is a single, forty-something-year-old male. _Larry_? Dean asks. _Or Leo_? 

_I bet he goes by his full name_ , Sam says. _He seems the type to insist on it._

Dean laughs, can't help it, because he's pretty sure Sam is one hundred percent correct. 

The second Mallory, Lynn, could be either the husband or wife at the next address, no way to know. Dean's barely had enough time to wonder which one it is before he's wincing at the sight of their family through their front bay window. All three kids are throwing tantrums, the mom looks like she's at her wit's end and the dad's just turning around in circles, trying to decide where to start and not able to pick either the least upset or the most because of all the screaming and shouting and crying. 

_Think we should take one of the kids just to help the parents out_ , Dean says. _Shit._

_Bet it's not this bad all the time_ , Sam says. _Christmas, y'know? Everything's worse around the holidays. Kids are probably screaming for toys, dad's working overtime to make sure they have enough, mom's got a job in retail to help and people've been shouting at her all day._

Dean looks inside again, tries to see what Sam has. The dad's still in office-wear, fair enough, and it's late enough in the day that he's had plenty of time to change if he came home from a normal nine-to-five but he hasn't even loosened his tie yet. The mom's in khakis and a red shirt, could be a coincidence but there are half a dozen stores in town with that uniform and it's not a stretch to guess that her day's been tough, not when she's working retail this close to Christmas, doubly if she doesn't usually work and is just a temp for the holiday season. The kids -- god knows. As loud as they are, they're still unintelligible which is actually kind of impressive. 

_We won't take a kid a then_ , Dean says, reluctant. _But I reserve the right to change my mind in the future._

_So noted_ , Sam says. _Third house_? 

Dean jumps down from the tree, brushes bark off his ass as Sam climbs down. _Third time's a charm. Please god, let it be the third house because if her number's unlisted and we have to start this shit all over again, I'm gonna scream._

_Just don't be like one of those little assholes_ , Sam says, waving at the house across the street. 

\--

The third house is on the other side of town, closer to where Dad left them but in a much, much nicer neighbourhood. Dean's pulse starts speeding up when he notices the brand of cars parked in the driveways, the detailed iron-work of fences and mailbox holders and screen doors, the immaculate lawns and landscaping. 

_Have to be careful_ , he tells Sam. _Anyone sees us, they'll be on us in a heartbeat,_ partly because this neighbourhood looks like one of those where everyone knows everyone else, has block parties and neighbourhood garage sales, but mostly because Sam and Dean very obviously do not belong here. 

Sam rolls his eyes, mutters something under his breath, but lets Dean's words slide, follows after his brother as they move from shadow to shadow. There are only two lights on inside when they get to the right house, one downstairs in the living room and then a hallway light upstairs. No car in the driveway, garage empty when Sam picks the lock and they creep inside. 

Sam heads straight for the walls and toolboxes but Dean takes in the pristine garage floor, how organised everything is, and scoffs. _Can't believe the garage is detached_ , he says. _People like this, you'd think they wouldn't want that, having to go outside to get between the garage and the house._

_People like this, I can't believe they don't have the garage alarmed_ , Sam eventually replies, coming back to Dean with his small canvas bag full, now, rattling and clinking with promise. _No keypad or wires, though. Guess it'll just be the house. What d'you think, should we break in now, wait inside? Or wait for everyone to get home and go to bed_? 

Extra days, extra time, extra caution -- Dean's tired of it, wants the kill and wants it now. _Now_ , he says. _Gives us a chance to scope out a hiding place and if I trigger the alarm by accident, we'll be able to get out quick._

Sam thinks about that for a second but nods, grins wide. His teeth shine in the dark garage, pure white brilliance just screaming for a crimson coat of blood. 

\--

Sam's always had the better hands, gifted in ways with lock-picks and thieving that Dean's been jealous of more than once or twice, but Dean's the electronics genius. Sam has the back door open as if it was never locked in the first place but Dean's the one who's already disabled the alarm from the outside and he slides into the house first, dismantles the keypad alarm in seconds without setting it off. The pair of them are inside, door closed, avoiding windows, in under a minute. 

Dean takes the lead in the house, goes through each room, taking in the lush furniture in the living room, the gleaming appliances in the kitchen, the watercolours on the walls, the lack of anything that might separate this from a showhome. He goes upstairs, leaves Sam safely downstairs to scope out the contents of the kitchen drawers and cupboards, and takes in two guest bedrooms, one master bedroom with an en-suite, all in shades of blues and greys, a large bathroom, a small office with two walls of books, nabs a handful of jewellery on his wanderings. The art on the walls is classy, Dean guesses, for this social class, and the place is calming, designed with muted colours to be a sanctuary -- cold and lifeless sanctuary, but still -- from the insanity of the crazed, manic world outside.

Sam would love living here; sometimes Dean can't help feeling guilty that he can't give Sam a home like this, that they're stuck in dump after motel room after dump, having to deal with badly-fitted windows and leaking roofs and problems with hot water and cockroaches and thin carpet. Most of the other things Dean wants to give Sam, he can tell himself 'later,' make promises to himself that when they're older, when they're more capable, he'll give them all to Sam. 

A home's different, though. A home means neighbours and police and jobs and groceries. A home means settling down, giving up their life. A home means the Impala in a garage, the sight of roads leading into the distance tugging at Dean's restless blood, the urge to kill forced under tight control and rarely satisfied. Dean loves the life they're already living but he loves Sam more; Sam deserves a house, a home, everything in the entire world. If he wants it, Dean will give it to him. Dean would sacrifice it all -- the wandering, the hum of the Impala's tyres on highway after highway, the feel of blood drying under his nails and cold, sharp steel in his hands -- if Sam wanted. Sam wouldn't even have to ask and Dean would do it gladly. The manic urge to kill, the need for movement, is nothing compared to Sam. 

_Knives are sharp_ , Sam says, standing at the foot of the steps and looking up as Dean walks back down. _That's about the only useful thing. Unless you wanna nab a stand-mixer, too. They have all the attachments. It's kind of impressive, doesn't look like anything's ever been used. Can't even tell whether Lynn cooks or Doug, or if they have a housekeeper. They seem like the type of people to have a housekeeper._

_What a waste_ , Dean says. He makes it to the bottom of the stairs, wraps an arm around Sam, pulls him close and presses a kiss to the top of his head. _And ugh, Doug. Doug and Lynn, Lynn and Doug. Boring. Any idea where we should wait? There're some good possibilities upstairs but if we're gonna take her with us alive, it'll be easier to drag her out from down here._

Sam glances upstairs, thinking, says, _There's a half-closet off the kitchen, towards the laundry. Linen closet, maybe, I didn't look too close, and I think it's over a cupboard they're using to store cleaning supplies, but it should work._

Dean grins, says, _Let's check it out, then. Think they'll notice if we take snacks_? 

_Idiot_.

\--

They're holed up in the closet, crammed together, and Dean's sure that if they weren't already used to being muddled up in each other, stitched up together, this would be uncomfortable. As it is, Sam's half-crouching, half-sitting on Dean, and they're using the time wisely, kissing each other long and slow and deep, Dean gently rutting against Sam, eyes closed and thinking about blood. If only Sam was older, he could be naked right now, hole around Dean's cock, the two of them having to gyrate instead of Sam riding him because the closet's so small, the tiny area taken up and completely filled by the smell of sex, the way Sam would throw his head back, rest it on Dean's shoulders as his hips would move, mouth panting out Dean's name, Dean's fingers pressing into Sam's hips, the cold, clean feel of anticipation for orgasm and murder building between them.

_Slut_ , Sam says, taking a break from Dean's mouth to suck on Dean's jaw, gently bite the skin over the bone. _What're you thinking about_? 

_What else_ , Dean says, trying to pull Sam even closer, trying, maybe, to meld them together for good, this split of their physical bodies so unnatural, so wrong, an error Dean thinks he'll be trying to fix his whole life. _Thinking of fuckin' you, bitch. Thinking of gettin' you on my dick in a little space like this, painting your insides with my come before we go out and I paint your skin with blood_.

Sam swallows, says, _You can't -- Dean, you can't say things like that, we have to -- what if they come home and we're -- shit_.

Dean hums, bites down on Sam's shoulder, is rewarded with a sharp inhale of breath. _Then you'll just have to be quiet_ , he murmurs. _You can do that, can't you, Sammy? Keep your mouth shut while I get you off? No room for oral here but I could get my fingers up your ass and you could jerk me off -- or we could do it the other way. Your pick, sweetheart. What would you like more -- or we could jerk each other off, get all over each other, all over this picture-perfect little linen closet._

_DNA_ , Sam hisses, though he's not making any move to stop Dean from unbuttoning his jeans, first, then Dean's own. _We have to be careful, Dean; we're leaving too many messes_.

_Bleach on the shelf below_ , Dean points out. _Three bottles, the clean-freak fucks. We'll throw it around before we leave. Or we could just set the house on fire. C'mon, little brother_ , he whines. _Stop being fucking sensible for once,_ please _, and just let me touch you, wanna get my hands on you, and it could be_ hours _before they get home, I'll go stir-crazy if you won't let me just -- please, Sammy_.

Sam sighs and Dean would grin in victory if he didn't think that would instantly make Sam change his mind. _You don't gotta do me_ , Sam says. _And I think I can -- hold on_ , and he moves, wriggles in the tight space and completely rearranges himself, ends up with his head in Dean's crotch, legs tucked under him. 

Dean doesn't have time to react to that, to think, again, how useful it is that Sam still has a few years before he hits his growth spurt, before Sam's got Dean's jeans open and he's tugging Dean's boxer-briefs down just enough so that Dean's cock's free. Sam licks up one side and down the other and Dean twines his hands in Sam's hair, hips jerking up as Sam sucks on the head. _Jesus fuck, Sam_.

Sam pulls his head free, looks up at Dean, and his eyes glitter in the small, thin stream of light coming in around the cabinet door. _God, you taste so fucking good_ , Sam says. 

\--

He doesn't say another word, not until Dean's come and his dick's gone sensitive to the point of pain in Sam's mouth, not until after Dean's yanked Sam up and is eating the taste of his own come off of Sam's teeth and tongue. 

_Dean, fuck_ , Sam says, barely has time to breathe out, before Dean's kissing him again, manhandling him until Sam's straddling Dean's thighs and Dean can shove one hand down Sam's jeans, get his fingers around Sam's dick. _Oh, shit,_ Dean, Sam says, and he lets his back arch and his head fall backwards, slamming against the wall with a thunk that almost has Dean pausing until Sam says, _Don't stop, don't you fucking stop or I'll fucking_ , words cut off with a strangled cry as Dean grips harder, twists more, jerks faster. 

_Come on, Sam_ , Dean murmurs, _feels good, don't it? Know you want it, know you want me_ , before he bites down hard on Sam's collarbone. The smell of blood fills the closet, mixes in with sex and sweat, and it's so close to Dean's imagination that he can feel his cock twitch like he hasn't just spilled down Sam's throat. 

_Only you_ , Sam promises. _Only ever -- no one else, Dean, swear -- always wanted you and -- will forever, swear, I swear_ , and he shudders as he comes dry, going boneless almost immediately after. 

Dean licks his hand, licks the taste of Sam's dick from his skin and wonders what Sam'll taste like -- and then the garage door opens. Sam stiffens, scoots back a little bit further into the closet to fumble with his jeans, get them buttoned up again. Dean's on the verge of asking Sam if he needs any help but then he hears another car pull into the driveway, hears one door open and close in the garage and one door outside. 

_Separate cars_? he murmurs to Sam, frowning as he does up his own jeans, because that doesn't fit with what they've seen of the house. 

_Maybe Doug had to work late_ , Sam says, and Dean could throttle his brother because if he hadn't been the one with his hand on Sam's dick, he'd never know the kid just came hard enough to melt his spine. Sam's fucking unreal sometimes. _They could've met for a late dinner, had to bring both cars home? Not that much of a stretch. Odd they're not both parking in the garage, though. It was big enough_.

Dean nods -- Sam's got a point, after all, the asshole -- but something about that doesn't feel right. There's more going on here and now Dean's starting to get worried, thinking that maybe Sam was right about this one, maybe it's too much to think they can nab her. 

_We'll see_ , Sam says, and he squeezes Dean's knee. _We're here, might as well give it some time and learn what we can. For all we know, Doug's out of town and this one's a friend come back for a drink or something after a girl's night out. Calm down._

That's a nice thought, two women, both of them tipsy enough to try and put up a good fight instead of caving like weaklings or threatening to call the cops or alarm company or anything, crying for them to just take what they want and go. Dean harrumphs under his breath but calms; sometimes he fucking hates it when Sam's the voice of reason. 

They wait, breath so light that Dean wouldn't be able to tell they're both still alive if it wasn't for the way they're pressed against each other, Sam drawing circles on Dean's knee, Dean grazing his fingers over the bite mark on Sam's collarbone, and soon enough the front door opens. The woman -- Lynn, it's definitely her -- comes in first, laughing, and the other person follows her. The shoes on the entryway tile, they're all wrong for another woman, too heavy, not the same tenor as heels or flats or even sneakers. Dean looks at Sam, who's looking back at Dean, eyes wide, as they hear very male laughter and then the sounds of kissing, undressing, right there in the foyer.

"Come on," Lynn's saying, and from the sound of it, she's trying to drag the other person deeper into the house, toward the den, maybe. 

"Got all night, babe," the guy says, and adds, "Doug ain't gonna be home 'til tomorrow, we got all night. Let's enjoy it while we can, huh?" 

Dean's vision floods with red as his body goes flush with heat. Married and she's cheating on her husband. Married and she's brought someone else into her house, is planning on taking them into her bed, into her _body_. He shifts, starts to move, but Sam pulls him back down. 

_Wait_ , Sam says. _It'll be easier to get 'em when they're fucking_.

_She's_ cheating, Dean says, knows he sounds as feral as he ever gets without losing the power of speech. _Made a promise and broke it like it was nothing_.

It's unfathomable to Dean. He's Sam's and Sam is his and even if they aren't married to each other in the sight of god or the law, they might as well be. They're together, always have been and always will be, they're two bodies with one fucking soul, and the thought that someone who's made a promise to have and to hold, 'til death do them part, is breaking that promise as easily as it sounds like Lynn is, turns Dean's stomach. Fuck, even their father -- Dad hasn't been with anyone since Mom died, not seriously, not in any meaningful way. Vows are worth nothing if they aren't lived by, lived with, and this woman's dirt, less than dirt. She deserves to die and as painfully as possible. 

_Not even good enough to eat_ , Dean mutters, lip curling at the thought of it. 

_All she's good for_ , Sam says, a gentle correction. _Turn that waste of space into something that matters. Show her how it's really done, what love really means. Right_? 

Dean turns, finds Sam's mouth with his own, and the kiss is less a kiss and more just breathing into each other's mouths, sharing air the way they share everything else. Dean tugs Sam close, focuses on his brother instead of the noises in the kitchen, bottles opening and closing, pouring liquid, laughs and words that eventually turn into breathy little noises, footsteps going towards the living room, thump of two bodies onto the couch. 

Sam's the one who speaks first, who asks, _Now_?

_Now_ , Dean says, and the two of them jump out of the closet, door silent and footsteps lighter than air, knives held with casual familiarity in their hands, sticking to the dark corners and sides of walls like shadows. 

\--

In the end, they don't burn the house down. Dean wants to, wants to get rid of the asshole that this bitch was using to break her vows, but Sam stops him, a hand on Dean's wrist as he looks over the pieces of the man scattered throughout the living room. 

_We're taking this from Doug_ , he says. _We shouldn't take the house as well. He'll want something from here, I'm sure of it._

_He won't be able to sell it_ , Dean points out. _Better he get the insurance money._

Sam thinks about that for a moment, shakes his head. _He should know what Lynn was doing. No chance of that if we burn the place down._

Dean reluctantly agrees but that doesn't stop him from writing a note in block letters on the back of dinner's receipt, taken from the asshole's wallet. 

_**SORRY ABOUT YOUR WIFE -- YOU DESERVE BETTER.** _

Dean leaves the note skewered into the largest piece of the guy's torso, shrugs at Sam's look, scoffs and tries to play off a flush when Sam beams at him. 

_Softie_ , Sam teases. 

_Just wanna make sure the poor guy ain't mournin' her_ , Dean says. _Now, come on, grab her feet_.

\--

They'd originally thought they'd steal Lynn's car, use it to get her out of the neighbourhood undetected, at least, but the guy she was cheating with is parked right behind her and Dean's not about to get in that son of a bitch's car. He doesn't want to kill Lynn, not when he has the barn all ready for their fun, wants to get as messy as he can with Sam and not have to worry about being quiet, about neighbours. 

_Think you could carry her to the edge of the subdivision_? Sam asks, following Dean's train of thought with the same ease he always does. _We could get a car from one of the houses a couple streets over, maybe_.

Dean rolls Lynn over with his foot, considers her. It'd be a challenge, that's for sure, but it's either try or kill her here. _You see any rope in the garage_? 

Sam thinks, says, _Rope, duct tape, even some nylon twine, though not much._ He pauses, asks, _Are we gonna put clothes on her_? 

_The bitch deserves to be shamed_ , Dean snarls, mind caught on what they walked in on: Lynn, naked, on her knees, groaning around the guy's dick; him, naked, eyes closed, murmuring encouragement, telling her to take it, telling her that he can give her what she needs, what she can't get from her husband; the way neither of them had a chance to react before Dean was knocking Lynn out and Sam had driven a skewer through the man's neck, taking out the voicebox; Sam dragging Lynn out of the way and letting Dean just fucking _destroy_ the guy. He swallows, bites down the anger, the hatred, and says, grumpily, _But yeah. Less noticeable that way_.

_Look on the bright side_ , Sam says. Dean looks at his brother, raises an eyebrow in a manner that says this better be good, and Sam grins, says, _She'll be awake when you take it all off again_.

Okay, yeah, the thought of that cheers Dean up. 

\--

There's a close call when a cop drives past the entrance to the subdivision just as Sam and Dean are approaching through the bushes, Lynn over Dean's shoulder and throwing him dangerously off-balance at the sudden stop. The car slows down, a flashlight sweeps right over the fence in front of them, and Dean holds his breath. He and Sam are wearing black and he got Lynn into a black pair of leggings and a black hoodie, but she's blonde and starting to wake up -- he can feel her eyelids fluttering, feel her lips moving behind the duct tape. 

The car stays there for a moment, one that stretches out in Dean's mind, ends up with him and Sam getting caught, getting separated, torn apart and put in the deepest, darkest cells the government can find. He doesn't even realise he's trembling, vibrating with crystal-clear rage, until Sam puts a hand on his shoulder, whispers, _Calm down_.

Dean does, tries, and once the car moves on, Dean lets out a breath as if he's been punched in the stomach. He dumps Lynn to the ground, yanks Sam close and holds him, inhales the smell of him. _Can't lose you_ , he says. _God, Sammy, I can't_.

_You won't_ , Sam says, clinging back, drawing his nails down Dean's back deep enough to settle Dean, reassure him that Sam's here, that Sam's not going anywhere. _And if they try, we'll just kill our way back to each other. You said you wanted a challenge, that would definitely --_

_I take it back_ , Dean says, cutting Sam off. _It was a stupid thing to say_.

Sam stands there, lets Dean get his equilibrium back, and then asks, _You want me to go jump a car or d'you wanna_? 

Dean doesn't want to leave Sam alone or let Sam go off alone; he bites back the urge to snap, to just give up on this and let it go. They bought groceries. Sam has a plan. They've spent time getting this ready. He's not going to give in to the fear. 

Dean can steal a car faster than Sam but if Lynn regains consciousness, he doesn't want Sam to have to take care of her. She's Dean's, at least until she's dead, and Dean's going to carve every moment of infidelity, every lie, every _thought_ out of her body before she breathes her last. Sam's not slow, by any means, and he could use the practice; Dean can let Sam out of his sight for five minutes, he can.

_You go_ , Dean says. _I'll wait with her_.

Sam doesn't question Dean, doesn't ask if Dean's sure, just gives Dean a kiss and melts through the bushes, over the fence with his bag, moving like he's nothing so much as a sliver of moonlight. Dean looks down at Lynn, kicks her in the head again, knocks her deeper into unconsciousness, and waits. 

\--

It doesn't take Sam long at all; barely seems like three minutes before the sound of an older engine slows down and idles right in front of the gates. Dean picks up Lynn, half-jogs, skirting the lamplight as much as possible, and Sam's got the back door open, ready for her. He raises an eyebrow when Dean slides in next to her, rather than behind the wheel, but Sam's known how to drive for a while now, even as short as he is, and knows better than to ask questions when they're on the move, so he just gets back in the driver's seat, closes the door, and says, _Tell me where_.

_Left at the stop sign_ , Dean says. _Then out past the old gas station, a right at the county line, and you'll see the trees._

Sam follows directions, gets them into the cover of the grove with the headlights and engine cut off, no one around. He gets out, opens Dean's door, and is nearly bouncing on his feet as he says, _Okay, come on, we're wasting night_.

Dean laughs, can't help it, and the two of them wrangle Lynn inside, get her set up on the tarp, use chains around her wrists and attach them to hooks on the walls meant for horses or cows, probably, cut off the tape around her ankles and rip off the tape covering her mouth. By the time they've got her ready and the tools spread out, she's groaning, tugging a little on the chains. 

"Wake up, wake up, little birdy," Dean sings, crouching at her side, drawing the tip of a scalpel down her cheek. "It's time to play." 

"M'head," Lynn groans. "Hurts." 

Dean chuckles, says, "Gonna forget about that headache real soon, little bird. Now come on, open those pretty grey eyes for me." He waits; when she doesn't open her eyes, Dean clucks his tongue, says, "Don't be rude, Mrs. Mallory."

That gets her attention. Her eyelids fly open, pupils the same size, contracting in the light like normal. No concussion, then, that's good. "Who," she asks, shakily, weakly, as she first sees Dean, then Sam, takes in the barn. She tugs at her hands, looks up and sees them chained to the wall, and gets a little more frantic. She kicks out but Sam's too far away and Dean saw it coming. 

_You gonna let her tire herself out_? Sam asks. 

_Just a little_ , Dean says. _It'll be more fun to work her up again that way_.

Sam laughs and Lynn freezes, seemingly scared of the noise. Dean doesn't know why; he loves the sound of Sam's laugh, can't help but feel at home every time he hears it. 

"You know why we're doing this?" Dean asks. He waits for an answer, shakes his head and taps the scalpel against her neck when she doesn't reply, staring at him, eyes wide and welling over with tears. "See, it was actually a giant coincidence. We saw you at the mall today -- gosh, that was this afternoon," Dean says, as if he's surprised. "You've had quite a day between the shopping and the dinner and the cheating. Did you get everything you wanted? From the shopping, I mean, not the cheating. We all know how that ended." 

"Please," she says. "Please, don't, I can -- my husband's rich, we can pay you, whatever you want." 

Dean rocks back on his heels. _Well, Sam, the lady offered us whatever we want. What d'you think_? 

She looks between them, as if she can't even tell what they're saying, what they're talking about, like they went to all this trouble and might actually, seriously, think about letting her go. Sam ruins that, though, in two words delivered so coldly, so dispassionately, that Lynn starts sobbing almost immediately. 

_Not interested._

_Was kinda hoping you'd say that_ , Dean tells him, before he puts the scalpel across Lynn's mouth and sits on her thighs to keep her from kicking. "Shh, little bird. Trust me, you don't want to waste all your energy this early." Dean plays with the zipper on Lynn's hoodie, says. "Caught you fucking in the living room," pulling the zipper down an inch. "You should be glad we dressed you before we took you out of the house. What would your neighbours have thought, I wonder? Do they all know you're having an affair? It's going to kill Doug when he finds out." 

Lynn wrenches on the chains, bucks underneath him, spits in Dean's face. "You fucking kid, you think you know anything about me? What, you've been stalking me, figured you have the right to judge me? You don't know anything, you fucking asshole." 

"Language," Dean tells her, and yanks the zipper down all the way. "And you're lucky I'm not into you or I'd fuck you in the ass just for that, but as it happens, I'm strictly Sam-sexual." Lynn stops struggling just long enough to shoot Dean an incredulous look. Dean grins, gestures at Sam, says, "Lynn, meet Sam."

"He can't be more ten," Lynn says, starts fighting again. "You're a fucking pedophile. There's no way he's old enough to -- you talk about me but you're the rapist. You're the one who's raping children. C'mon, kid -- Sam. Knock him out and get these chains off of me; we can report him, get you some help, get you away from him." 

Sam steps forward and Lynn looks hopeful for two seconds before Sam stops next to Dean, close enough to run one hand over Dean's head, settle at the nape of his neck. "Dean would never do anything to me that I didn't want," he says, and the faith in that, the absolute trust Sam has as he says it, fills Dean with the kind of love only Sam will ever get, the kind of love that would do anything and everything to earn that faith, repay that trust. "I mean, he's my big brother. He takes care of me. And I'm eleven, thank you very much. Besides, it's not really our sex lives you should be worried about right now. It's the fact that we're actually serial killers and when you're dead, we're gonna cut you up and take you home to eat you." 

Lynn stares, fight starting to drain from her eyes at such a clear explanation from such a young child. It amuses Dean how much people assume about Sam based on his height, on the halo of curls his hair makes around his head, the cherubic baby fat still clinging defiantly to Sam's cheeks, the angelic smile he can wear and the warmth he can push into his eyes.

"You said -- you're eleven," she says, weakly, half a question. "What're -- you're monsters, both of you."

_You a monster, Dean_? Sam asks.

Dean shrugs one shoulder. _We kill the monsters and we're still alive, so -- guess not. Besides, if we were really that bad, Dad would do it or he'd get someone else to do it. Man's never hesitated to kill a freak since the day he started hunting._

Sam thinks that over for a second, nods. _Yeah, guess you're right. Cool. Not monsters._

Lynn looks between them, gapes. 

__\--_ _

Sam finds a stool, pulls it about twenty feet away and sits down, watching with eager eyes and his elbows on his knees, chin cupped in his palms. Dean starts to cut off the hoodie with a pair of kitchen shears, doing it slow, thin ribbon by thin ribbon, letting the shears pause over her nipples, her neck, the curve of her breasts. She's still sobbing when Dean does the same to the leggings, starting at the feet and drawing it out as long as he can, cutting sections first to the knee, then mid-thigh, then down from her hips. 

The tears are annoying but the begging is worse, once Dean picks up a couple good, sharp knives, and starts slicing her skin to mirror the zipper, the seams of her ruined clothes. He pries open her mouth and looks consideringly at her tongue. 

_Cut that one clean, if you're gonna take it out_ , Sam calls out. _I have plans for her tongue_.

_Aw, Sammy,_ Dean says, taking his eyes off of Lynn long enough to shoot his brother a wide, brilliant smile. _Gettin' me all tingly over here_.

Sam snorts but doesn't say anything else. Dean's smile softens and he leans forward, asks Lynn, "You see why I love him, right? Why he's the only for me? Shame you made that promise to your husband and didn't even have the courtesy to get a divorce before breaking it." 

Lynn cries, silent crocodile tears and snot running down her face. Dean's careful when he cuts her tongue out at the root and doesn't punish her for trying to bite him while he's working. Sam's there with a baggie when Dean's done, and he bends down, gives Dean an open-mouthed kiss once Dean's dropped the tongue into the baggie and sealed it. 

_Perfect_ , Sam says. 

_What, you or the tongue_? Dean replies. 

Sam laughs. _Your tongue_ , he says, and squeaks when Dean pinches his ass. 

\--

Dean kind of goes a little crazy after that. The ruined, gaping maw of her mouth spurs him on, the scent of her fear and despair pushing him deeper and deeper into the kill. He cuts her, slices her everywhere, scoops out her eyes and pulls out her teeth and mutilates her nipples and cuts off her clit. He stabs the sharpest scalpel they own through every one of her nails, as deep into the nail-bed as he can push, saws off her ears, carves her nasal septum away and then each of her fingers and toes, knuckle-by-knuckle. 

There's blood, so many wounds and amputated limbs, pieces of Lynn scattered on the tarp around them. He hasn't cut into her skin too deep, has held onto enough of himself to keep from ruining any of the organs inside, but he wants more, needs more, needs to see the life leave her eyes the same way any hope of survival did. 

WIth a snarl, Dean slices her throat in one long, deep stroke, and when the blood comes spraying out, he lets it cover him, carve out tracks on his face and flirt with his lips before he licks it up, eyes closing at the taste, the feel, the smell -- the kill. 

\--

_'Kay_ , Dean says, once he's come back to himself, breathing back to normal. _What stuff_? 

Sam's at his side, holding a baggie open under Lynn's neck to catch what blood is still trickling out. _Lungs, heart, liver_ , he says. _Leg bones and kidneys; we got the tongue already. And as much blood as we can salvage._

_Sammy_ , Dean says, smile bright and beaming, _you know I love you, right_?

_Sap_ , Sam replies, taking the baggie away now that the blood's stopped weeping from her neck, has slowed down to droplets. He kneels by the body and is cutting it open to get to the organs in seconds, fingertips sweeping lightly across Dean's work before he pries open the chest. 

Dean grabs the coolers, pulls them over, and kneels on the other side of the body. _Bitch_ , he says, but he says it quietly, reverently, as his hands slide into the corpse, knuckles bumping Sam's as he helps Sam cut through veins and muscles. There's nothing in the world like having him and Sam leaning over the same body, dripping with the mess of torture, digging in and touching each other as their fingers are surrounded by blood and viscera and death. 

Sam looks at Dean, shakes his head to get his bangs out of his eyes, and Dean knows, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sam loves this too. It's more than the slight smile, more than the happiness shining out of Sam's eyes like a flare in the dark, more than the way Sam cuts the corpse apart with quick, clean movements that speak of precision and adoration. It's the way Sam's so perfect -- perfect for Dean like they were handmade for each other, especially when Sam packs the liver in saran-wrap and sets it in a cooler before he licks up the mess on his hands, leans over the body and kisses Dean soft and warm, someone else's blood in his mouth. 

Dean groans, has one hand tangled in Sam's hair before he remembers he's just been elbow-deep in a dead woman's chest, and he opens his eyes, looks at Sam, takes in the streaks of blood in Sam's hair and the way it gleams in the dim light of the barn. _God_ , he breathes out. 

_No_ , Sam says, in that strange tone of voice he gets every once in awhile, the one that gives Dean shivers and goosebumps with want so intense he nearly shatters apart just from hearing it. _But close._ Sam stops there and it's a handful of seconds before he blinks, shakes his head, says, _We should hurry before this starts to go bad._

_Right_ , Dean says. He shifts on his knees, bites back the urge to jack off, and mutters, _Shit, little brother_. 

Sam laughs, says, _Your fault, y'know. You take back the age limit, we can fuck right here, right now._

There's half a challenge in Sam's eyes, the mocking yet desperately hungry look he gets when he makes fun of Dean for standing firm on this one, particular thing, and Dean narrows his eyes, says, _Pushin' the limits of what I can take, Sammy._

For a moment, Dean can see Sam think about it, think about goading Dean into going wild again, into giving in to the itch that just wants to take and take and take. Dean doesn't know if he wants Sam to or not, he's hard as diamond and wants nothing more than to drive his dick as far into Sam's body as it'll go, but this is Sam's move now. 

Sam weighs the options, takes his time doing it, but then softens his face, gives Dean a sheepish smile, says, _Sorry_.

Dean's not sure whether he should feel disappointed or relieved, so he settles for both and thinks about coming over Sam's dick and then licking up his mess, sucking Sam's cock until Sam's begging for release -- and then just a little bit more. Sounds like a good way to spend the night. 

\--

Dean wakes up the next morning, rolls over to tug Sam close, maybe rub off on him or see if Sam's awake enough to suck Dean's cock or fuck him. Sam's not there, though; Dean's hand lands on sheets that aren't even warm anymore. He sits up immediately, half in a panic, but soon hears noises coming from the kitchen that he doesn't think a burglar would be making: pots and pans clanging while other things sizzle on the stove, the smell of fresh citrus and warm bread. Dean rubs his eyes, gets out of bed with a muffled curse as his big toe pops, and scratches his balls as he pads down the hallway and into the kitchen. 

He's greeted by an odd sight: Sam in the middle of the kitchen, dancing along to whatever he's listening to in his headphones, wooden spoon in one hand, filet knife in the other, apparently conducting whatever's happening on the stove. He's naked, of course, and Dean thinks of reminding his little brother about hot oil splatters but figures there are some lessons a person needs to learn for themselves. 

Sam tilts his head, then turns around, beams when he sees Dean. _I didn't wake you up, did I_? 

_Wouldn't care even if you had_ , Dean says. _What's cooking_? 

_Breakfast_ , Sam says, and gestures with the utensils in his hands, shooing Dean away. _So go jerk off in the living room or something until it's ready. I'll bring it out to you._

It's not that Dean doesn't think Sam can cook -- he's made sure Sam can take care of himself -- it's just that Dean can see the cookbook propped open on the ledge above the sink and from what he can make out, whatever Sam's trying to make seems pretty fucking complicated. Dean has the feeling that this is supposed to be a present for him, Christmas or otherwise, and he doesn't want Sam to freak out if one or two things don't go according to Sam's plans. Sam always gets a little snippy when things don't go the way he wants. 

_Dean_ , Sam says. _Seriously. It'll be fine. Please_ \-- please let me do this for you, please don't ask me to stop, please don't doubt how much I love you. 

Faced with a request like that, Dean can't do much but go as he's been directed. He sprawls on the living room couch, turns on the tv and cycles through a few game shows, talk shows, and infomercials before he turns it back off and lets the sounds of Sam's cooking send him back to sleep. 

\--

The first thing Dean notices is the lack of noise; he'd fallen asleep to sizzling and chopping, even the half-aware noises of Sam singing along to -- something -- and now there's nothing save the faint noises of bubbling and boiling in the kitchen. He opens his eyes, sees Sam standing above him, tray in his hands, soft, fond smile on his face. _Hey_ , Dean says, voice husky enough to make him clear his throat next, try again. _Breakfast_? 

_Breakfast_ , Sam says, and as soon as Dean sits up, yawns obnoxiously once and settles, Sam hands over the tray. 

_Tell me what I'm looking at_? Dean asks, because holy fuck, the shit on this tray looks fucking gourmet, one of those meals you'd get at a restaurant that you'd pay a hundred bucks for and end up with one bite of food and some weird sauce dripped around the plate. 

Sam perches next to Dean, rubs his cheek on Dean's shoulder before he starts pointing at things on the tray and naming them. _Blood pudding, seared heart with warm apple compote, roasted marrow spread on fresh bread, fruit salad, coffee _.__

Dean pokes at the fruit salad, gives the pineapple and papaya a skeptical look. _Tryin' to poison me here, Sammy? Fruit_? 

_Don't even pretend you don't like it_ , Sam says, elbowing Dean in the ribs -- thankfully gently. _You're the one that threw them in the cart when I wasn't looking. Forgive me if I thought that meant you'd like to eat them._

_Yeah, yeah_ , Dean grumps. _Got a reputation to uphold. Serial killers and cannibals, eating_ fruit salad _for breakfast. What's the world coming to._ Ignoring the fruit for now, Dean cuts off a bite of the blood pudding -- looks more like sausage patties than anything, but he's not about to argue the name with Sam -- and smells it, has to inhale twice because the first sniff isn't nearly enough, the smell of blood and oats, dark with onions and earthy spices, cumin and rosemary. 

Hoping the taste is even half as good as the smell, Dean takes his first bite and instantly falls in love, eyes rolling back in his head and eyelids closing outside of his control. _Fucking hell_ , Dean says, once he's chewed the bite to liquid, swallowed and felt the warmth of it slide down his throat. _You get to cook from now on. Everything. Jesus, Sam._

Sam shifts, asks, _You like it, then_? as if he hasn't seen the way Dean's attacking the rest of the pudding, barely civilised enough to eat it with knife and fork when he wants to pick it up with his hands and shove it in his face. _It's okay_? 

Dean scarfs down the last bite, says, _Please tell me there's more of that_. 

_Yeah_ , Sam says, squirming a little with happiness. _But you can't have any more or you'll spoil your appetite for lunch._

_You have got to be_ , Dean starts to say, then meets Sam's eyes and sighs. Sam might only be eleven but he's got the steel-firm look of a man eight times his age; Dean's never been able to argue with that look when he's wearing it, never really wants to. _Okay,_ fine _. But how long do I have to wait for lunch_? 

Sam glances at the clock above the television, thinks for a second, then says, _Noon_. 

Dean groans, thunks his head back on the couch while being careful not to jostle the tray, and says, _Seriously? Noon_? 

_You've been saying you wanted to get some stuff done around the house_ , Sam says. _I'll let you turn up your music loud enough for the whole neighbourhood to hear._

As far as bribes go, that's pretty decent, and Dean had wanted to take a look at some of the windows, maybe rig a way to keep the wind out now that winter's hit for real. There's the garage to clean up, too, and how he'll want to give the Impala an oil change when Dad brings her back, maybe see if he has time to replace the spark plugs. He needs to go through the things Sam lifted last night, too, and he should probably get Lynn's jewellery ready to pawn. _Zeppelin_ , Dean offers, because that's the one band they can both agree on wholeheartedly.

_Perfect_ , Sam says. He leans over, kisses Dean on the cheek, says, _Finish your breakfast_ , and scampers back into the kitchen before Dean has the chance to come up with any kind of witty response. 

\--

The marrow spread is just as good as the pudding, meaty taste of bones roasted with fat still on them, seasoned with pepper and garlic and the salty taste of -- come? Maybe the faintest hint of come, or Dean could be imagining it, mind pulling up flavours of things he really wants to be tasting, eating; jesus, he can't wait for Sam to hit puberty. The toast is fresh, too, bread made this morning, by the taste of it, with spices baked in to give it the warm, herb-green taste of parsley and oregano and rosemary. 

Dean pokes at the slices of heart, a little skeptical at the sight of them because they look just like pan-seared pork steaks, smell sort of like it, too, under the cinnamon-honey tang of the apple compote. The surface is crusted on every side with sea salt and cracked peppercorn; when Dean cuts the first piece open, the inside is rare, leaks pink juice onto the plate and sends the warm smell of meat into the air. 

_Okay_ , Dean calls out, once he's eaten the first bite of heart and is staring at the plate. _Seriously. Why didn't we try this before? Christ, this shit's fucking awesome_. 

Sam's head pops around the wall, the smile on his face blinding. _Don't get used to it_ , Sam says. _Special occasions only._ Dean's nodding frantically even as he's cutting the rest of the heart up, stuffing it into his mouth faster than is probably healthy. _Good_ , Sam says, and disappears again. 

\-- 

Dean cleans his plate, even eats the fruit salad with a smile on his face. 

\--

He putters around the house the rest of the morning, tries to ignore the noises coming from the kitchen and mostly succeeds. Dean does try sneaking a taste when Sam takes a bathroom break but Sam yells _I know what you're doing, jerk_ just about the moment Dean's got a wooden spoon of broth halfway to his mouth. _Put the fucking spoon down_.

Dean eyes the spoon, thinks about not listening, but Sam's doing this for _him_ , has been up and in the kitchen today for god knows how long, so Dean sighs, puts the spoon down. 

_Thank you_ , Sam murmurs, and Dean turns, gathers Sam up in his arms and peppers kisses all over Sam's face. _Hey_!

_Gettin' hungry_ , Dean says, nibbles on Sam's neck. _If I can't eat the food yet, might as well eat you_.

Sam wriggles, gets out of Dean's hold but doesn't go far, just takes a couple steps backwards and jumps to sit on the kitchen table, legs spread. _Eat me or_ eat _me_? Sam asks. 

It takes Dean a second to follow but then he groans, looks up at the ceiling. It was a joke, he knows, and a bad one at that, but the thought of eating Sam, eating _his_ Sam, is -- uncomfortable. Oh, Dean has no doubt that his brother's delicious, he's bitten enough of Sam's skin and licked up enough of Sam's blood to know that, and to have Sam like that, eat him up and keep him forever, a part of Dean that will always be there, be safe, it's tempting. But the other side of that is Sam less than whole, maybe even _dead_ , and all because of Dean. That will -- he'll never allow that to happen. No, Sam's going to stay alive forever, Dean will do whatever it takes to make sure of it, and he'll stay alive, too, because he won't ever leave Sam alone. 

_Thinking too hard_ , Sam says. _Want me to bleed in the soup? Or are you thinking about a little more? I could probably do without a toe or two. We'll have to negotiate for anything bigger._

Dean gets to Sam, stands between Sam's spread legs and clings to his brother. _Don't even joke about that_ , he says, as Sam hooks his feet behind Dean's legs, wrap his arms around Dean's waist and gives in, entirely, to the hug. _Don't -- no, Sam. No._

Sam glides one hand over the curve of Dean's skull, digs in his nails with just enough force to make sure Dean feels it without bleeding. _Okay_ , Sam says, light and easy. _No joking about it_. He pauses, then adds, carefully, _What about the other kind of eating? Lunch has a while to simmer before I need to do anything with it. We have time to fuck if you wanna_.

_If I wanna_ , Dean echoes, snorting. He loosens his grip on Sam just enough to lean back, look Sam in the eyes. _When don't I want to? When do either of us not want to_? 

_Stupid question_ , Sam says, smiling before his tongue darts out, touches the tip of Dean's nose. _But you didn't answer._

Dean scoffs, wipes spit off his nose and smears it down Sam's cheek, instead. _'Course I wanna, doofus._

_Idiot_.

_Bitch_.

_Jerk_.

_Shrimp_.

_Want me to suck you_? 

Dean blinks, the question stopping him mid-retort. _Yeah_ , he says. _When don't I want you to -- if I ever answer that question with a 'no,' Sam, it's not me. Got it_? 

Sam laughs, unhooks himself from Dean and hops down from the table, holds out a hand. _Got it. Now come on, gotta get my mouth on you. 'M hungry_.

Dean thinks about teasing but decides that he better not, not if he actually wants Sam to go through with this instead of leaving him to jerk off by himself. He takes Sam's hand, lets Sam tug him back to the bedroom. 

\--

Lunch is at noon on the dot. Sam brings Dean a tray again, this time to the bed; Dean's blissed out on sex and Sam and more sex and _Sam_ and his legs are still a little shaky, his head too pleasure-light to focus enough on movement. Sam looks proud of himself when he settles next to Dean, crosses his legs. 

_That for the food or for the fact that you sucked my brains out through my dick and then broke my spine with your fingers up my ass_? Dean asks, can't resist. 

_Both_ , Sam says, and when he leans in to kiss Dean, he tastes of Dean and smells of blood. It's heady, addictive, always has been and always will. _Okay, I want you to try this and tell me what you think._

Dean looks down at the tray, to the steaming bowl of what looks like stew. He picks up the spoon, gives the stew a stir, takes in bacon and mushrooms and onions and carrots, asks, _What's the meat_? 

_Lung_ , Sam says. _Lung stew. I put a little blood in there too to thicken the sauce. Turns out that works just as good as cornstarch or flour._

_Lung, huh_ , Dean says, pokes at one of the pieces and then fills his spoon with lung and broth. It smells good, rich and thick, faintest tang of alcohol as well, and the flavour is simple when it hits Dean's tongue but delicious. He takes another bite, this time getting some of the vegetables as well, and he can feel it warm him down to his toes when he swallows. _Might have to remember this one when we get sick_ , he says. _Feels like goddamned chicken soup._

Sam smiles, leans on Dean, head on Dean's shoulder. _I'll show you the recipe_ , he says. _The lungs were a bitch to work with, though. We'd have to be_ really _sick._

Dean picks up one of the croutons in his other hand, looks like the same bread from this morning, now in long, toasted and dried-out slices, and dips it into the stew, lets the broth soften the bread, then shoves the whole thing in his mouth. The bread practically dissolves on his tongue and dissipates like cotton-candy; Dean groans around the taste of it. _Jesus, Sam_ , he says. _Where've you been hiding this_? 

_Well_ , Sam says, sounds a little sheepish. _It's just a recipe; I can follow directions when I want to. I've been planning this out for a while, too. And y'know, I've been watching you cook for years. Speaking of which_ , he says, tone changing, eyes narrowing the slightest bit, _this shit is fucking exhausting, Dean. Why didn't you ever tell me? I could've helped_.

_Didn't need to_ , Dean replies. _I don't make anything half as involved as this probably way. Besides, I like it. Like cooking for you_. Without it, without _Dean_ , Sam would've starved to death a long time ago. There's something heady about knowing that Dean is keeping Sam alive, something precious about knowing that Dean is the one person on the planet that Sam trusts with his continued existence. 

It's like Sam can read the paths of Dean's thoughts; he full-on snuggles into Dean, tucking himself under Dean's arm, all that naked skin pressed up against Dean. _I appreciate it_ , Sam says, softly. _More now than ever, but I always have. I've never taken it for granted._

Dean nuzzles Sam's hair, says, _I know you haven't_. He lets the moment rest for a little bit, enjoys the feeling of Sam close to him, of their minds and bodies in sync, and then says, _I'm gonna fucking_ chug _this stew, Sam._

Sam laughs, says, _Don't forget to eat your vegetables_ , and leaves a kiss on Dean's shoulder, a kiss with the slightest hint of teeth. _I gotta go check on dinner_. He gets up, leaves the bedroom and disappears around the corner. Dean sinks back into the pillows. 

One of these days, Sam is gonna fucking kill him. 

\--

'Vegetables' turns out to be some kind of stir-fry, peppers in three different colours and fresh green beans and onion and broccoli and bacon. It tastes odd -- not bad, but other than Dean had expected, and it takes him a few minutes before he realises what the difference is. Sam sauteed everything in fat -- human fat. This is better than bacon grease, holy shit. Dean's immediately thinking of how it might change the taste of a roux, how human grease would affect gumbo or mac-and-cheese or just fucking pan-fried chicken. 

_We got more of the fat_? he calls out. 

_Leftovers of everything_ , Sam yells back. _Enough to feed us the rest of the week, almost_.

Thank god. 

\--

Dean sits in the kitchen the whole afternoon, pries diamonds out of earring settings, divides the rest of the jewellery into piles for different pawn shops, sharpens knives, goes through the odds and ends Sam picked up last night, and tries not to watch his brother cook. It's difficult, a little because Sam's naked and that's always distracting, a lot because it's _Sam_ , and some because he's only ever seen his brother like this when they're cutting people apart. There's something clinical about the way Sam cooks, everything in some kind of order that only Sam knows, a specific pattern and system of doing things. Dean doesn't cook like that, never has, and he thinks that this, along with how they kill, demonstrates the differences between them: Dean revelling in the journey, putting himself wholeheartedly into getting messy, getting grit under his fingernails and all over his face, and Sam so precise, so meticulously controlled, always a step back from giving in completely. 

He's not supposed to be watching, though, so he ducks his head down every time Sam looks like he's about to turn, focuses on the knives. They've been needing a good sharpening lately, even more after yesterday. 

_Not fooling anyone, y'know_ , Sam says at one point, the sun setting into twilight outside, Sam bending down to poke at something in the oven. 

Dean's eyes have been glued to Sam's ass and he jumps at Sam's words. _Not tryin' to_ , Dean says, playing off the startlement. _Dunno what you're talking about_.

Sam snorts, says, _Sure, you don't_ , and stands up again, closes the oven door and fiddles with the temperature gauge before he turns around and leans against it, soaking up the heat like a cat might. _Been sittin' there watchin' me all afternoon._

_And if I was_? Dean asks, half a challenge but no admission of guilt. 

_I wouldn't care_ , Sam says, smile playing at his lips. _I mean, s'not like I don't do the same thing; we both do. You think I mind that you can't keep your eyes off me_? 

Dean grins, sets down the whetstone and leans back in his chair. _Wanna keep more than just my eyes on you_ , Dean says, and makes a show of looking Sam up and down, head to toe and back again, slow, assessing. _Few more months and then I'll keep_ in _you, too_.

Sam's eyebrows furrow, just for a moment and just enough for Dean to notice. He can tell what Sam's thinking -- that Sam wants to say waiting is pointless, that Sam wants to challenge Dean's unshakeable determination yet again now that Dean's not so much on the edge, that Sam's thinking of Dean inside of him, more than just his tongue or fingers. Dean waits, curious to see how Sam responds, and is a little surprised when Sam just says, thoughtful, like he hasn't considered the idea before, _We're going to need to get some plugs, aren't we. Yeah. Huh._

Jesus fucking christ, the kid's trying to kill him. 

_Might be a good birthday present_ , Dean suggests, lightly. _I want something good this year; a man only turns sixteen once._

_Man_? Sam asks. _Really_? 

Dean gets up, prowls to Sam, presses the length of his body against all of Sam's naked, hot skin, hands squeezing Sam's ass. _Really_ , he says. _I provide for you, take care of you, fuck you. What else is there_? 

A thought runs through Sam's mind; Dean can see the flash of it, the split-second of consideration, but before he can ask, Sam says, _Fine_ , with a put-upon sigh. _Man. Just don't get stupid about it._

_Ain't never gonna happen_ , Dean says, and when Sam raises an eyebrow in question, he says, _No one else is lucky enough to have you. If there's one thing in the world I can count on, it's that you won't ever let me get stupid._

_That the only thing_? Sam asks, and he rubs against Dean, slots a thigh between Dean's legs. 

Dean laughs, can't help it. _You little slut. Seriously_? 

Sam pouts and Dean wants so badly to lean down, kiss that pout right off Sam's lips, leave Sam grinning mindlessly. _You got off three times before lunch_ , Sam says. _Think it's my turn. Food'll wait._

Mindless grinning sounds about right, especially because that kind of mindless grinning is guaranteed to shut Sam up for at least five minutes. _You're sure about the food_? Dean asks. He knows how much this day's meant to Sam, wouldn't want to ruin it for something they have decades of time for, will probably spend decades of time doing. 

_Positive_ , Sam says. He cocks his head to the side, looks up at Dean through his eyelashes, says, coquettishly, _Please fuck me, Dean_ , please?

_Beg so pretty_ , Dean growls, picks Sam up and carries him to the living room, spreads him out on the floor and kneels between Sam's legs. _Beg, Sam. Wanna hear you, hear it. Beg for me_.

Sam does not disappoint. 

\--

Needless to say, dinner's pushed back a bit. Dean worries for a moment that Sam's going to be pissed his timetable got fucked with, but Sam's practically waltzing around the kitchen as he puts dishes and pans on the counter, gives one or two things a quick sear in the cast-iron skillet, plates things up. Dean's not gonna ask or apologise, not when Sam looks as happy as he ever gets outside of bed, but he does give Sam an apologetic look when Sam turns, question in his eyes as if he's sensed Dean's guilt but doesn't know where it came from. 

_Starving_ , Dean says, an implicit request for Sam to leave it. 

_Not my fault it's late_ , Sam says, but there's laughter in his tone, nothing but fucked-out satisfaction. 

Dean lets out a laugh, doesn't push the issue. _So, chef. You gonna tell me what I'm eating before I eat it or are you gonna make me try it out first_?

Sam brings over two plates, both of them steaming, and sets them down in front of Dean. One has what looks like thinly-sliced steak on it, with a big spoonful of lentils and cherry tomatoes, the other is pasta, tossed in spinach and what Dean's guessing is olive oil, some meat-and-tomato sauce on top. 

_Thank god you're only giving me small servings_ , Dean says, _or I would've put on, like, thirty pounds today_. 

_Probably burned off all the calories fucking_ , Sam points out, and Dean grins at the reminder of how they've spent a good portion of their day, can't help it. _Oh, for -- just try the food._

Dean goes for the pasta first, wraps linguini around his fork and stabs a bit of the meat and sauce, smells it before he eats. Garlic, a little flour, more hints of that rendered fat, the outside texture similar to the heart earlier but a different taste, sweeter, almost, soft and creamy to the point of melting in Dean's mouth. He hums, goes for another bite, savours the way everything goes together: al dente pasta a good match to the softness of the meat and stewed tomatoes and wilting spinach; tomatoes a good, sharp bite of acid against the creaminess of the meat and the fat -- not olive oil -- clinging to the pasta; that fucking _meat_.

He looks up at Sam who merely nods at the other plate, though he does look pleased, standing on the other side of the table with his arms folded across his chest. Dean rolls his eyes but does as directed, cutting a bite of the thin, crispy meat and tasting it. Thick, firm, but not tough, and Dean's getting the distinct taste of fat and red wine. He wants answers but knows Sam won't be satisfied until he's tried everything, so Dean gets a bit of the lentil salad on his fork, shoves it in his mouth. He'd thought it was going to be cold but it's warm as well, the tomatoes bursting on his tongue, bringing out the faintest hint of blood. 

Dean swallows, thinks that as much as he likes Sam's cooking, it's going to have to be for special occasions only or otherwise he's going to get spoiled. _Okay_ , he says. _Tell me._

_Liver florentine, with linguini tossed in fat_ , Sam says, _and tongue, marinated in wine and fat most of the day before pan-searing it until crispy, with warm lentil salad, tomatoes roasted in the hollowed-out bones, and a light sauce of red wine and blood._ Dean shakes his head, can't believe it, and Sam asks, hesitant, _It's okay_? 

_Sam_ , Dean says. _Do you really have to -- this is all fucking amazing. I can't believe you did this all in a day, that's nuts. And are you serious, there are_ recipes _for this_? 

Sam smiles, a line of tension leaving his shoulders in the face of Dean's praise. _Recipes for beef and lamb organs, really, but I improvised_ , Sam replies. _I'm glad you -- eat up, there's dessert._

Dean blinks, can't do more than that, and then he realises, eyes narrowing. _You found a recipe for that thing in the Hannibal books, didn't you_. 

_Sanguinaccio dolce_ , Sam says with a nod. _And I've tasted it and it's unreal; you're gonna love it_.

_Love all of it_ , Dean says, and he pretends not to see the way Sam's eyes go soft, the way Sam's smile lights up the room, as Sam turns around and starts to clean up.

\--

As much as Dean's looking forward to dessert, he's not about to rush through dinner. He takes his time, relishes every single bite, catalogues the tastes, tries to think of how he can do anything half as good with beef or chicken and comes up wanting. By the time he's done, the kitchen's spotless; Dean hates to think of how many dishes Sam's washed today, cleaning up as he went along, knowing that they don't have many things to begin with. There's a fridge full of leftovers, though, and a jar of fat slowly setting on the counter, and Sam's sliding a bowl of pudding right under Dean's eager face. 

_Blood and chocolate_ , Sam says, _and you will never want anything else for dessert ever again_.

_But pie_ , Dean says, and he's gonna hold firm to that forever because nothing beats a good pie, but then the first hit of sanguinaccio gets into him and Dean's resolution is swept away like dust in a hurricane. Sweet, slightly metallic, the touch of iron that Dean instantly recognises as blood, bitter chocolate turned rich with cream and sugar, it all melts together and Dean's not ashamed to admit that this pudding is actually, literally, sexually arousing him. _Fuck_.

Sam laughs, seeing Dean shift in his chair, adjust himself in his pyjama pants. _Easiest thing in the world to make, too_ , he says. _Tell you what: I'll make it for you anytime you want it as long as you bring me the ingredients._

_Deal_ , Dean says, instantly, completely unwilling to ignore that offer. _Blood I can do. The organs_.

He stops there but Sam finishes his thought, says, _Need to be taken out carefully, which means less mess, which means less fun, I know. But blood's all right._

Dean scoffs, says, _More than fucking all right_ , and doesn't say another word until after his second helping of sanguinaccio.

\--

They go to bed early, naked and curled together, smelling of meat and blood and sweat and sex, the day's food and activities following them, lingering on them. Sam falls asleep quick, exhausted after a long day of cooking, and the light whuffs of his breath on Dean's chest keep a steady rhythm as Dean trails his hand through Sam's hair.

__He never thought he'd see the day when Sam turned into a five-star gourmet chef, but it's come and gone, his little brother a better cook at eleven than most people ever dream of becoming. It's a surprise, sort of, but not really, because Sam's amazing, can do anything he puts his mind towards and why should this be an exception. He wonders, idly, if Sam's going to be disappointed with what Dean offers him now, all the normal shit that Dean's been feeding him for years, and Dean floats in that fear before he shakes it off. People go out for fancy dinners on their birthdays and for big holidays all the time; Sam brought that home for Dean, fed Dean life and love, took the usual end-product of their killing and turned it into something magical. Fancy's good once in awhile but not every day, which will make every time Sam gets it in his head to cook special, important._ _

__Sam is perfect, knows how Dean feels about cooking, about feeding Sam, showing Sam that he needs Sam, and Sam's gift of unparalleled trust is the same in reverse, showing Dean that Sam needs him, that Sam will never need anyone in his life, _for_ his life, as he needs Dean. Such a complex thing, food, even though most people will probably never think of it the way they do, something intrinsic to their survival that proves, once more, how much they need each other, belong to each other, love each other, want each other, can't live without each other. _ _

__Dean smiles into Sam's hair, inhales deep, and closes his eyes. He's going to sleep well tonight._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I once swore I would never end up writing anything long for this 'verse but here I am, a few weeks later, posting something that is *almost* bigbang length. *Facepalms* Fingers crossed you enjoyed it!


End file.
